My stomach churned as I sat perched on a metal folding chair in the center of the room. I looked at the clock. 9:59. One more minute! And sure enough, just as the small hand reached the 10, in they came.
I hadn’t known what to expect—I had always been sheltered, never exposed to the kind of poverty I was seeing on this mission trip to the supposedly prosperous New York City . I gasped as the most bedraggled group of people I had ever seen entered the room. Men and women in ripped, dirty shirts, hair mattered, teeth missing, smelling of garbage and unwashed bodies. I looked down at my own carefully ironed, spotless white capris and cursed myself for not wearing sweatpants. How uppity and selfish we must seem to these people! They walked to this feeding program in blazing heat for a small bowl of oatmeal, and I complained if my mom didn’t buy the kind of cereal I liked. They didn’t own a change of clothes, and my closet was filled to overflowing.
I anxiously watched the homeless men and women receive their small breakfast and look for a place to sit. A middle-aged man in a tattered green shirt moved in my direction, and I gulped as he sat down in the folding chair directly across from mine. Smiling, I reached for his dirt-caked hand. “Hi, I’m Alaina! It’s a pleasure to meet you!” I tried not to think about how long it had been since the hand had been washed. “I’m Frank,” he said, showcasing a large, toothless grin. We both began eating our oatmeal, me desperately trying not to notice the terrible odor emanating from him. For a while we talked of things such as the towns where we were born, our families, our favorite things to do. And then slowly we moved into the topic of religion. I was amazed by Frank’s words. Here I was to encourage Frank, and he was the one teaching me. “Whatever happens, trust in the Lord!” Frank said. “My whole life, God has provided me with everything I’ve needed. I’m so thankful for all that He’s given me. Just trust Him, and He’ll meet all your needs!” I stared at the man in front of me. He didn’t have food or a home, let alone decent clothes to wear. And he was telling me how thankful he was?
Slowly, I realized Frank was right. Jesus had died for Frank and saved him from eternal punishment. That should be enough to make anyone thankful. Yet God had done even more than that. He had kept Frank healthy and safe for many years. He had provided feeding programs like this one so Frank wouldn’t have to go hungry. He had blessed Frank with a Church family who uplifted and encouraged him. And Frank, who had fewer material possessions than I probably ever will, was more thankful than I had ever been.
I left the feeding program that day with a humbled heart and eyes opened to the small blessings contained in every day. I realized that thankfulness should not fluctuate with circumstances, for God’s Word commands us to “Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Th 5:16-18, NIV). I never want to forget how incredibly blessed I am. If I can remember the simple appreciation Frank taught me that day, my life will never be the same.